Between Friends by Jenny Harper Page B

her, the pot gave a extra-vehement hiss and a small fountain of bubbles shot in the air and cascaded downwards. Emily stepped across the kitchen and pulled the saucepan off the heat.
    ‘Mu-um,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Spaghetti. Water. Boiling over?’
    ‘Oh.’ Jane’s gaze began to focus and she looked first at Emily and then at the saucepan. ‘Oh sorry. I hadn’t noticed.’
    What on earth was wrong with her? She’d been acting really strangely in the last few days. She’d forgotten to buy Emily’s favourite cereal bars for her lunch box, there were no clean knickers this morning because apparently the washing hadn’t been done and now she didn’t even seem able to cook supper without burning it. Emily’s mood, itself stretched to breaking point by Ross’s pathetic but all too successful attempts at blackmail and her own anxiety about the challenges that lay ahead, veered to irritation rather than sympathy. Still, she needed to choose her words carefully.
    ‘Can I help, Mum? I mean, you seem a bit tired.’
    ‘Help? Oh, would you Emily? Thanks.’ Jane dragged a hand over her forehead in a fruitless attempt to prevent her hair falling into her eyes. ‘Can you stir the sauce?’
    Emily lifted a tomato-smeared wooden spoon from the work top and stirred as her mother appeared to pull herself together and swing into action, laying out cutlery and place mats for supper.
    She waited a few minutes.
    ‘Mum?’
    ‘Mmm? What?’
    ‘You know you said I could play the Forster if I passed my Grade Six?’
    ‘We haven’t had the results yet.’
    ‘But if I do—’
    ‘I’ll think about it, Emily.’
    Her mother spat the words out as if they were something nasty. Her face was all screwed up. Not good. Bother. Maybe she should’ve started with the dress. Emily turned away, hunched her shoulders and stirred crossly. Mum had been putting her off and putting her off about the cello. What was wrong with her anyway? Her teacher said that all cellos needed to be played to keep sweet and that was even truer of the best cellos than cheap ones – and anyway, Mum hadn’t played the thing for years.
    She turned the problem over in her mind, watching the lumps in the Bolognese sauce and wondering vaguely if she should try to break them up. Perhaps her mother was feeling bad about not letting her play the Forster, so maybe she could capitalise on this by asking for a new dress. What was the best plan? To argue more about the cello, or move straight on to the request for a new outfit? On this occasion, the need to impress Robbie won over her music.
    ‘You know I’m going to Suzy’s party in a couple of weeks?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘And you remember it’s my birthday soon?’
    ‘I’m not l-likely to forget that, Emily.’
    Promising.
    ‘I really need a new dress.’ She glanced at her mother, whose face was a blank canvas. ‘And some shoes?’
    ‘Dad and I have already bought your present. And I’m not sure about going to Suzy’s party, Em’
    Emily threw the spoon into the pot, turned her back on the stove, crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. ‘Honestly, Mum! I’m not a baby. I can look after myself. Everyone’s going. And I’ll be the only person there looking like a complete twat.’
    ‘Emily!’
    She’d gone too far. Her mother hated bad language.
    ‘Sorry. But still—’
    Jane sighed. ‘I’ll think about it, Emily. I’ll see what your father says. Have you d-done your homework?’
    ‘Mostly.’
    ‘Well, why don’t you go and finish it, then you can watch that television programme after supper.’
    Emily sighed again, this time more heavily.
    ‘G-go.’
    It was hard to make bare feet sound indignant on cushion flooring, but she slapped her soles down as hard as she could anyway. Benji, curled up in his bed in the far corner of the kitchen, half-heartedly raised one ear and peered at her with sleepy curiosity, out of one eye.
    Jane watched her daughter flounce across the kitchen and out of